Wednesday’s Child: From my Bedside
I seem to remember that our sainted webmaster dislikes Diogenes stories, if only because they are largely apocryphal, but I’m ill in bed with the ‘flu.
I seem to remember that our sainted webmaster dislikes Diogenes stories, if only because they are largely apocryphal, but I’m ill in bed with the ‘flu.
And now, more grist to the mill. Another feather in my cap, or perhaps nail in my coffin.
Conspiracy theories are a great leveler. If in reality, as I see it, relationships between persons and things bring to mind medieval iconography or Egyptian painting…
The gentle reader may remember my post of a couple of months ago in which I proved to my own satisfaction – after all, isn’t this what counts in almost every contentious argument? – that the Russians did not kill JFK…
The gentle reader may not have heard of a Russian named Alexander Dugin, but all the same he exists.
We exchanged some pleasantries, he patted my son on the head, and then he said, “You’ve gained some weight, haven’t you?”
The grassy knoll has firmly established itself in the narrative in the form of a Dairy Queen in Orem, Utah, but there are a myriad other suchlike tropes.
Vasily, who turns four next month and whose verbal incursions are now all but irrepressible, doesn’t want me to “work.”
I am quite fond of political assassinations, though not in totalitarian countries, of course. I like to witness them in countries that actually have some kind of body politic…
My son Nikolai, the grownup one, reports from Venice, where he lives on one of the islands, describing a visit to an exhibition at the Procuratie Vecchie in Piazza San Marco.